From the Archives: My Meem
After my grandmother died in the summer of 2013, I wrote two blog posts: One on the day of her death, and the next about a year later. They are some of my favorite pieces of writing—mostly for the memories. I had to bring them over to this clean slate for posterity…
Post 1: Originally published on July 17, 2013
FOR MEEM
Top: Visiting from either Abbot or Mount Holyoke, my grandmother enjoys an innocent
night with granddad in the Beta house at Brown, 1951. Bottom: Honeymooners at 21.
Y'all know me, sometimes I just have to write. And I feel like this is a post 10 years in the making. This morning I woke up to my phone ringing. That's usually a bad sign right off the bat. It either means that I slept through my alarm (check) and/or it's bad news (also, check). Essentially, the same thing happened when my brother died (the sleeping through my alarm thing), except at that time, my mother was there to tell me in person instead of at the other end of a cell phone connection. Today, I preferred her tone of voice, which was strong and accepting as she told me her mother was gone. And I don't know why, but this time I relished the distance to recover on my own... (Maybe I am an adult after all?)
My grandmother's death early this morning was not tragic. It was not sudden. It's been on our radar since I was in college when we first learned that she—a newly minted chronic cougher—had been diagnosed with a degenerative lung disease called Pulmonary Fibrosis. As it runs its course, this mysterious, incurable and random disease causes scar tissue to build up in the lungs until (slowly, eventually) the exhausted person passes away. That's what happened this morning at 4:30am with my mom, her three younger sisters, and my grandfather gathered around Meem's bed at home. I'm sure that nearby you could find a half-finished New York Times crossword puzzle on a lucite clipboard, her shiny laptop, and a giant stack of books. This is how she ended her days, and I can't really be sad about that.
My Meem rocked a portable oxygen tank for many years, and the past few she was hooked up to one of two big, noisy compressors in my grandparents' home in Charlottesville, Virginia. In the beginning, it was an emotional battle to convince her to use a walker to save her strength, and an even bigger struggle to tell her that she could not safely drive a car with her constant light-headedness. Last year, she gave up going out for her weekly hair perm appointments. She stopped going to the grocery store and decided to forego lunches and dinners out at the club. She also reluctantly complied with our wishes and took to zipping around their house on a motorized scooter. When I came to visit, I'd sit at the kitchen island doing work, and she'd ride past waving like the Queen of England on parade, always on the way to her office to check emails and print things for my semi-blind, tech-inept grandfather. (Did I mention she knew how to use a computer before I did?)
Tragic? No, but it has not been easy. They argued a lot, my grandparents. My granddad has achy knees and hips, limited vision in both eyes, double hearing aids (he can thank that life-long duck hunting hobby of his for the near-deafness). Obviously I never asked, but I'm guessing that as a couple, they assumed he'd go first. My grandmother cooked. She planned. She sent us birthday cards and organized our giant family get-togethers. She faxed things for him. She emailed on his behalf. She printed the University of Virginia football and baseball schedules or news articles and left them on the kitchen counter with "the important parts" underlined or annotated. She ordered his clothes and decorated the house for the proper season. She made the home, literally.
Her sweetheart since around age 13 in Pennsylvania, Granddad did what he still does: He brought home the proverbial bacon, poured the Dewars (hers) and Grey Goose (his) promptly at 6pm, and removed shrimp cocktail from the plastic grocery store packaging to put it on good china for their enjoyment. Most importantly, he loved her dearly. As it became clear that this disease would kill her, they both got angry and controlling and annoyed at each other, neither one accepting but both passive-aggressively afraid. We started calling their house "The Bicker Barn." It didn't really become any less appealing, it just took some getting used to after years of their loving calls of: "MOOSE-ay!" and "HOT-say!" to each other across the house. (Nicknames are so weird.)
When I visited in May for my birthday, things were significantly different. Like my mom, I found both grandparents to be calm, strong and accepting. The last time I saw them together, they were sharing sections of the Sunday Times over coffee at her bedside.
It will be strange to visit without hearing her call to me from her bedroom or the back porch. Watching Wheel of Fortune will never be the same. I won't expect birthday or Christmas cards anymore, it's just not Granddad's thing. If he wants to say hi and ask how "Ralph Law-ren" is going, he'll pick up the phone while watching ESPN or Fox News on closed captioning. He'll be fine. He has been ready in his own impatient way. He's a people person. He has amazing friends, and of course he has all of us. My mom and her sisters have each other, and my cousins and I have the many holidays and vacations we all spent together at Virginia Beach, Wintergreen, the Greenbrier, and in Charlottesville at tailgates or paddling around their backyard swimming pool.
Most importantly, we all have the goofy, funny, behind-the-stuck-up-cocktail-party-scenes view of our grandparents as a couple: Two entirely self-made, traditionally successful, intelligent people unconsumed by "society" or expectation, but entirely in love with each other and stubbornly set on helping everyone around them to live happier lives. In this, I think they have succeeded by teaching us that truly hard work, considerate actions and strong relationships (romantic or otherwise) matter more than anything. I'm so thankful for them both and the legacy their love leaves for us.
An early summer morning. Crossword puzzles. A stack of books. Four adult daughters. A loving husband. And a quiet goodbye from soft bed in Virginia. Not a bad way to go, not at all. Miss you already, Meem.
My grandmother as I knew her: a beauty at every age, an avid tailgater, a proud and kind matriarch, and (of course) a lover of fun—and Dewar’s.
Post 2: Originally published on July 20, 2014
CHARMED, I’M SURE.
My grandmother’s charm bracelet, gifted to me just before her death in 2013.
Blogging is, like, hard these days. Obviously I don't do it that often anymore, but you know by now that when I do—I mean it. Case in point...
The one-year anniversary of my beautiful grandmother's death came and went last week. I still can't figure out what to do with that—the one year, or any anniversary of the loss of a loved one. It's hard. There's guilt for not paying enough respect (what is "enough?") There's also regret for dwelling on the past. There really is no right way, no matter what people say. Of course, I find it easier to dwell on the positive. I found many photos on my phone from her last months spent sick in bed, but immediately decided against re-hashing those private and painful moments. They're not mine to share anyway. Despite being surrounded by loved ones, those visuals do not exemplify the person she was.
So, I've just been thinking about our first year without a grandmother. Since her passing, as an extended family, we celebrated the birth of my cousin's adorable daughter and two weddings. We also celebrated "her boys" (the University of Virginia baseball team) going to the College World Series for the second time. (It was a big deal to us.) I think I speak for everyone when I say these reunions are much more pleasant than the all-black events of last summer. But as the matriarch and defacto party planner for every family get-together, she is ingrained in our family experience. I can't see them without thinking of her. Never mind that my mom stands and laughs like her and my Aunt Molly has her voice. I just associate the boisterous laughter of our giant family members with something she created. So we hug and crack jokes and make dinner and keep going. And she's there in the kitchen with us. And she's on the porch, in the driver's seat, and at the ballgame. I smiled to revisit her name on the Hall of Fame door at the baseball stadium this season when heading in for a playoff game. Her memory is literally everywhere, whether in formal honor or passing thought. Special people have this effect.
Now, about the above image: It goes without saying that emotionally, I keep many pieces of her with me. Physically, I have this: her charm bracelet. I thought it would be a nice little memorial, especially for the family members who may not have seen it. Somewhere in the hubbub of cleaning out her closet and giving away her things last Spring—her orders, mind you—I uncovered a faded Liberty of London zip pouch in the back of a dresser drawer. It smelled heavily of Estée Lauder perfume (as did everything of hers). I pulled the stiff zipper open and this charm bracelet cascaded into my hand with a few decisive clinks. When I took it to her, she clutched it to her chest, and exclaimed: "Oh, I've had this since I was a teenager!" Without missing a beat, she thumbed each charm and took me through their origins one-by-one. Grandad's high school service medal. Her college class ring. His Beta pin. His honors society lavaliere. It is truly a fantastic keepsake.
Since she gifted it to me, it's been sitting in the same pouch on shelf in my bedroom. I thought about framing it, or getting some kind of glass box for display. But it's kind of nice to see and remember it all over again every so often. Today, I took it out and went back through our conversation in my head. With a little light Googling and a magnifying glass, I could decipher the details once more. From what I can remember, there are 3 charms that are truly hers. The rest are tokens of my grandfather's accomplishments and physical proof that she was part of his journey the entire way. As if we ever doubted that for a second...
Though not a photograph, this actually exemplifies her quite perfectly. It represents her unspoken mantra of treasuring each moment wholeheartedly. (All us Instagram lovers can relate.) In retrospect, I see this in my memories of her. She threw so much effort into personal events and celebrations, which on the surface may have seemed frivolous. As a result, we wear the experiences like charms—little happy capsules of memory. There could be one for each giant Christmas dinner, every Easter egg hunt, each summer by the sea, 11 grandchildren’s graduations, college acceptances, honors societies and degrees. Lord help her, she would have run out of room on the chain. But this is where it all started—with her and grandad and their step-by-step journey together. I think that's pretty special.
One year later, I love that I can learn from her legacy even though she's no longer around to tell me in person. As they say, actions speak louder than words. Hers were quite charming. (Wink.)
2018 Update: An anonymous donor to the Virginia Athletic Foundation had the University of Virginia Baseball stadium renamed for my grandparents. If you go there now, you are seeing a game at “The Dish” (Disharoon Park). Were Meem still alive, I know she’d find it so incredibly over the top. But it’s such a proud reminder of her legacy and that of my grandfather, who is still very much kicking and attending games. :)